Atlantis
by pindergast
Summary: A dying man calls 999 and tells the operator something extraordinary. His last words send Sherlock and John on a case that is too fantastical to be true, and what they find could shake the very foundation of the modern world.
1. Prologue

**Hello again! Before we begin, I'd like to suggest a reading soundtrack: "Miss You" by Trentemøller. **

* * *

**Prologue**

_"Emergency. Which service is required?"_

"..."

_"Hello-"_

"Are you really there?"

_"Sir, I can't hear you. Do you require medical attention?"_

"I-No...I-"

_"I can't pinpoint your location."_

"Figures…*cough*."

_"Sir, are you okay?"_

"N-No."

_"I need to send an ambulance your way. Can you tell me where you are?"_

"I'm-I-I'm on...on the shore of the-the river…"

_"Are you injured?"_

"I'm...I think I'm...dying…"

_"Sir, please-"_

"I'm dying. Don't send anyone. Can we just-can we just...talk?"

_"Which river?"_

"Please...I just wanted to-*cough*-tell someone…"

_"...Tell me...what?"_

"Why I'm going to d-die...I don't know who it was, but...but I know...why…"

_"Sir, please let me help you-"_

"I can't be helped...I'm dying…"

_"Sir-"_

"Please-"

_"Your name...can you tell me your name?"_

"I can't tell anyone. Please...I just want someone to talk to...to hear me...to listen…"

"..."

"...I found it…"

_"What?"_

"...I...I found it…"

_"Sorry, but-"_

"I've been looking for it for years…years...and all this time, it's been right in front of me...all along…you've seen it...you must have…seen...the eye…"

_"I don't-"_

"I'm dying. And you're going to be the only one who knows…"

_"...Know what?"_

"..."

_"Sir?"_

"..."

_"Sir?!"_

"...I...found...it…"

"..."

"I found…Atlantis…"


	2. Tionscnaímid

**Chapter 1**

_**Tionscnaímid**_

John Watson sat in his chair, finishing his latest blog post. He, however, was having trouble coming up with a title for the case.

Sherlock Holmes was in the kitchen, examining a sample under a microscope (a sample of what, John didn't want to know).

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What should I call the case in America?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, "You're asking _me_?"

John turned to face him, "Well, yeah. It was your case."

Sherlock seemed to ponder for a moment, but soon returned to his studies, "It's your blog, not mine."

"Come on. You must have some idea."

"I don't think I could provide an original title any more than you could, albeit yours are never too inventive."

"...What?!"

"_The Elephant in the Room_? Really?" Sherlock stage-whispered.

John turned away and continued typing. "It was...concise."

"Ah…" Sherlock grinned to himself.

"I think it should have something to do with books."

"No...don't include me…"

"Something sort of...catchy."

Sherlock sighed.

"Vellum...vellum…?"

"I would avoid using one-word titles."

"Vellum...and...what?"

"John-"

"Leather? No…"

"Vellum and...uh...oh, what was that word-"

"Morocco," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

"_Vellum and Morocco_! Perfect," John exclaimed as he added the title to his post.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he exchanged samples. Before he could peer into the microscope, his phone beeped on the table. It was a text from Lestrade.

"Case."

"Case?"

"Case."

* * *

It had been nearly a month since their trip to America, and London had welcomed them home with a brigade of clients asking for Sherlock. Mycroft was impressed by Sherlock's performance in America, as well as the governor, their client. The news spread quickly, and made it back to England by the time they returned.

Sherlock didn't appreciate the attention, keeping up his furtive persona. He let John do most of the talking through his blog. In the last few weeks, John's blog had become unbelievably popular.

NSY became more lenient when it came to Sherlock's assistance. Lestrade was allowed to consult him when necessary without breaking any laws that were 'conveniently' established beforehand.

Because of the influx of cases, Sherlock and John had to assume that this was like any other.

* * *

"Jonathan Reed, 38, unemployed," Lestrade said as he led Sherlock and John to the crime scene. They walked along the shore of the Thames, a small area bordered by small trees and a park. "Shot in the stomach. Bled out here on the beach."

Sherlock paced around the body, viewing it from all angles. John stood behind him, casually observing.

"Bullet went straight through," Lestrade continued. "But there's no sign of it out here," he nodded to the rest of the shore. Sherlock seemed to ignore him and continued.

The body was slightly angled northeast, his feet close to the water. One arm rested on his wound, and the other fell at his side, a mobile phone in his hand.

"This is the weird bit," Lestrade said as Sherlock examined the phone. "He made one final call before he died."

"Who was it to?" John asked.

"He called emergency. But...he didn't really ask for any help."

Sherlock stood from his crouched position and motioned for Lestrade to continue.

"He said...you know, you should just listen," he left to speak to one of the investigators to retrieve the recorded phone call. As they waited, Sherlock whispered to John.

"No bullet."

"I heard."

"Where did it go?"

John scoffed, "You're asking _me_?" he mocked their previous conversation.

Sherlock shrugged, "Well, I have a few theories…"

Lestrade came back with a recording device, "Now, I have to warn you...it's weird," he held out a steadying hand. He pressed 'play' and let Sherlock and John listen.

Sherlock didn't seem to react to any of it until the mention of 'the eye'. He narrowed his eyes in thought. Both Sherlock and John's brows furrowed simultaneously at the last line.

_"I found...Atlantis."_

There were several moments of silence before John spoke, "What the hell…"

* * *

_**Tionscnaímid ~ We Begin...**_


	3. Deirfiúr

**Chapter 2**

**Deirfiúr**

"He...he can't actually mean...the Atlantis," John said, realizing that he was doubting his own words.

"'Course not," Lestrade said optimistically. He tucked the recorder back into his pocket. "Then why did he say it?"

"...Did he have a...history of-"

"We still have to check for substance abuse," Lestrade turned to Sherlock, "What do you think?"

Sherlock didn't seem to hear Lestrade. He was gazing beyond them, looking at nothing in particular.

"Sherlock?" John nudged his arm.

At the sound of his name, Sherlock looked back at them, suddenly more alert. "Sorry, what?"

"Any ideas?" Lestrade nodded to the body behind them.

"Uh...n-no...not yet," he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Fine."

* * *

Mycroft was sitting in his office when he got the phone call.

_"Mr. Holmes?"_

"Yes. To whom am I-"

_"Atlantis."_

"...Sorry...what did you say?"

_"It's back."_

"But that's-"

_"Impossible?"_

"Who is this?"

_"...Their King."_

* * *

Lestrade had given the address of the victim's apartment. Reed had shared it with his sister, Evelyn Reed. She was only recently informed of her brother's death, and was still grieving. Lestrade suggested that they wait to question her.

Sherlock, of course, ignored his request and headed to the apartment with John.

"We really shouldn't talk to her now," John said irritably.

"It'll be fine," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

John massaged his temples as they came closer to the apartment. It wasn't until they arrived that they realized that the complex was surprisingly close to the crime scene.

"You think he was taking a walk?" John asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as they stepped through the front entrance. They had to ask the man at the front desk which room she was in, and when they did, both of them noticed his perturbed expression.

"I don't think she'll accept visitors right now," the man said, keeping his voice down.

Sherlock, however, insisted, and eventually, the man told them which room it was.

* * *

Mycroft didn't know how to react to the mysterious phone call he had just received. It had been an unfamiliar voice, though sinister. His title of 'King' meant nothing to him, unless, of course, it was the king of England.

The word 'Atlantis', however, was familiar to him. He usually related it to the (legendary) ancient civilization that sank into the sea hundreds of years ago. But that's all it was: legendary.

There wasn't only the ambiguity of the message. Why would this person call Mycroft? Unsure of what to think, he dismissed it as a prank call and went on with his work.

* * *

After John knocked on the door to Ms. Reed's apartment, they were met by a red-eyed, shivering woman, tissue in hand. Sherlock immediately noticed that she bore a striking resemblance to her brother-perhaps they were twins. John, however, noticed that they shouldn't have come at such a time.

Past the drying tears and slightly disheveled hair, they could see that she was around the same age as her brother.

"Ms. Reed?" John asked softly.

"Sorry," she said quietly, "I'm not-"

"We're investigating the...tragic death of your brother," Sherlock said sympathetically, trying to sound consoling, "We were wondering if we could ask just a few questions."

John rolled his eyes subtly, not surprised by his ability to fake some human emotions.

Ms. Reed tightened her grip on the tissue, "Sorry, but-"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, in his usual tone of voice, as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Ms. Reed began to protest, but was interrupted by John's apologies. He tried to explain who he was and how he acted as Sherlock paced around the flat.

As Ms. Reed listened to John and kept a watchful eye on Sherlock, she realized who she was talking to, "Oh my God...are you...Sherlock Holmes?"

"It took you that long?" Sherlock said, unimpressed.

"Look...I'll answer whatever questions you have...just...not right now," she said, placing her palm on her forehead.

"Ms. Reed," Sherlock began as he walked towards her. "There is a possibility that your brother was killed by an organized crime syndicate that is currently reemerging on the streets of London that some believe is responsible for the assassination of Georgi Markov-"

"Wh-Who's that?"

"Someone who sounds important. If this is true, then we can't waste any time. We need you to cooperate as soon as possible, else we won't be able to apprehend them with celerity or efficiency. Do you understand our urgency now?"

John made an incredulous face at Sherlock behind Ms. Reed as she stared blankly at the detective. This uneasy silence remained until she gave in, allowing them to sit down as she cleared some things off of the tables. As she did, John leaned over to Sherlock.

"A crime syndicate?" he whispered.

"Of course not. But she's talking to us, isn't she?"

* * *

**Deirfiúr ~ ****_Sister_**


	4. Íobartach

**Chapter 3**

**Íobartach**

The three of them sat in a triangle formation, just as Sherlock and John did when they met with a client. Ms. Reed collected herself before she allowed them to proceed.

"When was the last time you saw your brother?" Sherlock began.

"This morning," she responded flatly.

"Where was he going?"

"He said he was just taking a walk," she said as John nodded at Sherlock, "but I don't think...I dunno, he seemed...flustered."

"Did he bring anything with him?"

"Nothing unusual. His keys, I'm sure...his phone."

"Had he been acting...odd in the past few days?" John piped in.

Ms. Reed laughed softly to herself, "He was always odd."

"In what way?" Sherlock began glancing around the flat.

Ms. Reed paused, as if she was trying to articulate what she meant, "When we were young, our father around very often. He said that he was always 'working'," she ticked her fingers in the air, "and Jon liked it the least."

"So," John pondered, "it was family issues?"

"Sort of," she clasped her hands together in her lap. "Our father wouldn't tell anyone what he did, not even our mother. Well, long story short, when he felt that Jon was 'ready', as he put it, Dad told him something. I never made any sense of it, and neither did Jon-"

"What did he tell him?"

"...He just said…'_Atlantis_'."

Both Sherlock and John leaned back on the sofa when she said this.

"The next day...our Dad was killed. Found dead on the side of the Westminster Bridge," she choked. "Ever since, John was obsessed with finding out who did it. After I had moved in with him, I would hear him talking to himself. Sometimes, I could hear the word 'Atlantis' being repeated over and over again as he poured over his books and papers. I told him that he needed to see someone, but he said that he was perfectly fine."

"Did you hear this word this morning?"

She paused, trying to remember, "I...I think so. Do you really think that that has something to do with Jon's death?"

"Did you hear the emergency call he made just before he died?" Sherlock leaned towards her.

"What call?"

"He called for emergency services, but he didn't send for anything. He made sure that his last words were heard by someone."

Ms. Reed was holding back tears, "Atlantis,"

"Yes. Do you-"

"I don't know anything about it," she said, far too quickly.

Sherlock chose not to say anything else. He stood and started to make his way to the door. "If you don't have anymore information for us, they maybe it's best that we leave," he motioned for John to follow him, which he did.

After they left, Sherlock hailed a taxi and headed back to Baker Street.

* * *

Ms. Reed made sure that Sherlock and John were gone before she retreated into her brother's bedroom. She began rummaging through the piles of miscellaneous junk he had collected on the floor.

She remembered, the day before their father died, there was a notebook. She couldn't remember where she had seen it, but the image was part of the memory, equated with 'Atlantis'. Neither of them told her what it was, and she never saw it again.

It was leather-bound, a strap running horizontally to keep it closed. It was meant to be inconspicuous, she assumed.

She rifled through her brother's books and boxes, flipping through notebooks and folders. As she did, as her eyes skimmed over the information in her hands, she remembered that these were her father's.

She looked closely at the page she had in her hand. Written in the margins, circled letters and words, engraved into her thoughts:

_"Atlantis...Atlantis...Atlantis…"_

* * *

When Sherlock and John returned to Baker Street, John immediately went to his laptop, intending to find any information that would be useful. When Sherlock saw what he was doing, he closed the laptop before John could turn it on.

"No, that won't be of much help."

"We need more information."

"A simple...'_Google_' search won't suffice," he grimaced as he pulled out his phone. "We need authoritative information," he dialed a number and held it to his ear.

Before John could answer, Mycroft picked up the phone. "_What is it?_" he said irritably.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him with mock enthusiasm.

* * *

Ms. Reed found an old photograph of her father, standing with her brother. They were in a park, and behind them was the Thames...the same location of her brother's death.

She set the photo aside and continued her search.

* * *

_"Are you asking for my help?"_

"Technically speaking, yes. Does the word 'Atlantis' mean anything to you?"

There was a long silence on the other end. When Mycroft finally spoke again, his voice was low and sinister.

_"What did you say?"_

"'Atl-"

_"Do not say that word out loud again,"_ he said insistently.

"Wh-"

_"Do you understand? If you're involved in something...stop. Whatever it is...stop."_

"I think you're overreacting a bit-"

_"Jonathan Reed _died_ because of this, Sherlock. It's not something to be taken lightly. This conversation is over."_

"Wait! Why can't you tell me what it is?"

_"...If I do, then you would most certainly die."_

* * *

She finally found it. The notebook, hidden beneath her brother's desk, rested in her lap. She untied the strands of leather holding it closed and opened to the first page.

The writing was in her father's hand, shaky and nearly illegible. As her brother's papers, the pages were covered in notes, observations, and most importantly, answers.

_"Atlantis…Atlantis...Atlantis…"_

She read every word carefully and thoughtfully, absorbing every bit of information her father had left behind. Her heart began pounding faster and faster at new realizations and disturbing truths. The answers that she had wished for, she finally had.

As she closed the notebook, there was a banging at her front door.

* * *

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear. John stood behind him, and had witnessed only one side of their conversation. Confused, he stepped into his line of vision. "Well? What did he say?"

Sherlock swallowed slowly, "He said...he said that this is an incredibly dangerous situation that should only be handled by the British government. It is the reason for Jonathan Reed's death, and will likely be for more to come. He suggests that I back off and let someone else deal with it."

"...And...wait, you're not seriously-"

"John..._why on Earth_ would I listen to him?"

"Good, okay...I wasn't sure at first. I thought you were actually going to take someone's advice."

* * *

She clutched the notebook to her chest as she stood from her chair, cautiously looking at the front door. The hammering continued, only getting louder and more aggravated. She searched the apartment for an escape route...a window, a fire escape, but she couldn't survive a four story jump.

Eventually, she heard a crackling sound, the sound of penetrated wood. They were breaking in.

She took the notebook into her brother's bedroom, intending to hide under the desk again. As she knelt down, she heard the door open and footsteps enter the room. She frantically fumbled to conceal the book, but the door to the bedroom burst open, and two men filed in, both armed, guns aimed at her head.

She froze, the notebook hidden from view. In one swift movement, she fell back on her feet, planning to run.

She was dead before she could even stand.

* * *

**Íobartach ~ ****_Victim_**


	5. Leabhar

** Chapter 4**

**Leabhar**

Sherlock and John stood before the body of Evelyn Reed, back in her flat, less than an hour after their meeting.

"Murderer broke the door down," Lestrade said as they examined the flat, "after that, it doesn't look like he had much trouble."

"'They'," Sherlock corrected him.

"Wh-more than one?"

"The body. Three bullets, both from different angles. They were standing apart from each other and aimed-"

"Yeah, yeah...I got it," Lestrade said, not wanting him to continue. "So there was two of them. Do you think that this has anything to do with her brother's death?"

"Her brother was murdered this morning, and hours later, so is she. The only link between the two was-"

"Atlantis," John finished for him.

"Atlantis?" Lestrade stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Did she know about that too?"

"We discussed...it…" Sherlock trailed off, realizing what he had just confessed.

Lestrade stared at them, "You spoke to her? After I specifically told you not to?" he exclaimed.

"We had to talk to her if we were going to get anywhere with Reed's murder," Sherlock said calmly, but sternly.

Lestrade was at a loss for words. He could only flail his arms aggressively until he could articulate, "She knew about 'Atlantis'?"

"Well, no, not exactly-"

"Oh. So you told her about it?"

"She had heard of the word, but she didn't know that it had anything to do-"

"Everyone's heard of Atlantis, Sherlock! But I have a funny feeling that we're not talking about the city that sank into the ocean!"

"Just...listen to what we have to say," John stepped between the two of them.

They repeated everything Ms. Reed had told them as Lestrade's expression grew more and more forlorn.

"This is insane," he murmured once they were finished.

"It makes sense," Sherlock began. "Both of them had extensive knowledge of Atlantis, and-"

"Wait, what?" Lestrade said, his brow furrowed. "You said she didn't know anything about it."

"Well, that's what we assumed, but based on the events that just transpired, she obviously knew something."

"Then...whatever information this was died with both of them," he threw his arms up in surrender.

"No...no that...that doesn't make sense," John said. "If both of them knew about Atlantis, then why did they kill Jonathan at one location, and his sister at another? I mean...why not just come here and kill them both at the same time? And the only way the killers could have known that Reed was going to be on that shore was by following him."

"...So...they were only targeting Jonathan Reed?" Lestrade concluded.

"Then why would they kill his sister?"

Lestrade scratched the back of his head.

"Something happened between the time of Reed's death to his sister's death," Sherlock said, more to himself than to anyone, "What?"

"You questioned her," Lestrade said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, but-" Sherlock stopped. "Oh…"

"What? What is it?"

"Atlantis. It always comes back to Atlantis…" he trailed off. "We're not looking at the time of their deaths. We need to look at what happened in the moments just before."

"Wh-the phone call?" Lestrade asked.

"Not just the phone call," Sherlock said excitedly as he began walking quickly to the bedroom where the body still lied.

He knelt down next to body as John and Lestrade followed behind him.

"A person's last moments can reveal a lot about the nature of their death," Sherlock said as he examined the area around the body. He felt around the carpet, looking for small objects or traces. He eventually made it to the desk, her head barely brushing the bottom drawer.

Sherlock laid down on his stomach and peered under the desk, only to find nothing of interest. He reached his hand into the small gap between the floor and the bottom drawer. His hand ran over an uneven line in the wood.

_A panel…_

He found three more of these in the shape of a square, which he pushed up gently. The small piece of wood lifted slightly, then came back down and dropped to the floor.

"Wh-no...no that's not right…" Sherlock said as he pulled the panel from under the desk. There was a disturbing lack of another clue. He reached into the compartment that would have held it, but it was empty as well.

Sherlock suddenly remembered Mycroft's warning:

_Jonathan Reed died because of this, Sherlock._

"Look, I don't know what you were expecting to find, but-"

"No...there was something...something here…"

"What?" John asked, not expecting an answer, "What was here?"

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Well, I guess-"

"Atlantis," Sherlock said flatly. "It always comes back to Atlantis…"

"Sherlock,-"

"Reed's last word? 'Atlantis'. The last thing we know his sister discussed? Atlantis. All of this...it all has to do with Atlantis."

"Then why did they kill Evelyn?" John asked.

Sherlock paused for a moment, "What happened between the phone call and her death? She spoke to us-"

Lestrade coughed purposefully.

"-about Atlantis. Before she spoke to us, she didn't know that he died because of it. She didn't know that it was his last dying message. That was when she…" he turned around and began examining the room slowly, "...knew…"

Sherlock started with the bookshelf. He removed books in handfuls and dropped them on the ground. John stepped forward and tried to save some of them from being ruined. He caught one: The Illustrated Signs and Symbols Sourcebook, it read.

He knelt down and looked at some of the others. There were a few non-fiction books, apparently on the history of London. One was a guide to ancient dialects and writing-

"Eureka," Sherlock said as he pulled a small, black object from the corner of one of the shelves. It was a camera.

* * *

The man in black sat in a dark room, the screens in front of him his only source of light. He leaned forward in his chair as the image changed suddenly. The view of the room was obstructed by a tall figure he didn't recognize. He was talking about something to two other men as they stood around the body of Evelyn Reed.

He watched intently as the man in the long coat examined the desk, finding nothing. The man in black laughed quietly to himself.

The man in the long coat walked out of view, but soon came back, incredibly close to the camera. Eventually, the man in black was face to face with the man in the long coat, staring at one another. He could tell that he was mouthing, 'Eureka'. He pulled the camera from its wire, and the screen turned to static fuzz.

The man in black lounged in his chair, grinning. The door behind him opened, and a man in grey entered, a small package in his hand. He stepped towards the man in black cautiously before speaking, "We found it, sir."

The man in black pushed his feet against the floor, causing his chair to swivel, and he faced the man in grey.

"Have you read it?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Good. Give it to me," the man in black said as he held out his hand. The man in grey complied and gave the package to him. "Now go."

As the man in grey left the room, the man in black opened the box slowly, tearing the paper carefully and delicately. His grin grew wider and wider as its contents were revealed. He held the leather notebook, running his hands over the cover. He fiddled with the straps that held it together, and opened to the first page.

He laughed. He laughed for a long time.

* * *

**Leabhar ~ ****_Book_**


	6. Iompróir

**Chapter 5**

**Iompróir**

In all, they found 27 cameras and microphones hidden throughout the flat.

"Can we find out who these belong to? Uh...serial numbers, maybe?" John asked Lestrade.

"We can try," he said, "but I doubt we'll find anything."

"The cameras are the least of our worries," Sherlock said as he sat on the sofa nonchalantly. "Jonathan Reed was being watched by someone because they were afraid. Reed's father had information on Atlantis, so they killed him. Worst case scenario, he passed on this knowledge to his children. But, they only suspected Jonathan, for what reason, I don't know. So, when they were sure that he had figured it out-whatever that may be-they killed him. Though they didn't expect him to call someone and pass on the information again."

"Wait, slow down," Lestrade said, holding his hand up, "If he wanted to pass on the information, then why not call his sister?"

"...Well, I hadn't thought about-"

"This is obviously dangerous information we're dealing with," John interrupted. "Maybe he didn't want his sister to get involved."

"...Yes, John, good," Sherlock paused, considering this. He, again, remembered Mycroft's warning.

"Anyway," he continued, "Word had gotten out about Atlantis after the phone call, at least to Scotland Yard. Then, when we questioned Ms. Reed, she was informed that Atlantis had something to do with her brother's death. She must have done something after we left."

"Maybe she went to look for whatever was in that panel?" John suggested.

"Maybe she found it," Lestrade said.

"Then they killed her," Sherlock stood. "A-Are you two not seeing the common denominator? I don't think we'll get very far until-"

"We have to figure out what Atlantis is," Lestrade finished for him.

"Oh, so you _are_ keeping up."

"Yeah, that's great and all," John said, "but...how exactly are we going to do that? I mean, how do we even start?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this, but didn't answer.

* * *

"You would think," Mr. Doyle said as Mycroft walked through the front entrance, "you'd enjoy the rain, Mycroft...you know, with that umbrella of yours."

Mycroft scuffed his shoes on the mat as he stepped in and closed his soaked umbrella, a sullen look on his face. "The umbrella isn't for rain," he said simply.

Mr. Doyle shrugged and led them to his office. Mycroft followed behind him as they meandered through the endless rows of bookshelves, all stuffed with books at odd angles. It had the familiar smell that he always liked, aging paper and dusty shelves.

"So," Mr. Doyle sighed as they both took a seat in his office, "what did you want to talk about?"

"...I've run into a bit of a problem," Mycroft began. "And I think you'll be able to help."

* * *

Sherlock hailed a cab as John tried to shield himself from the unabated rainstorm.

"Where are we going?" he asked as Sherlock successfully stopped a cab.

"I'm going to see an old friend-well, I say 'friend'," Sherlock said as they drove off.

"...Sudden inclination…?"

"No, don't be ridiculous."

John nodded as the cabbie drove through the rain, the droplets rhythmically tapping on the windows.

* * *

Mr. Doyle laughed, "That's a fairytale, Mycroft."

"No," he leaned forward, "it is very, very real."

Mr. Doyle's grin began to fade, "What are you dealing with these days?"

"This is dangerous business. I need all the help I can get."

"I don't know what you think I'll-"

"Do you remember that old book you would always show us?" Mycroft said, a tone of nostalgia in his voice, "the one about the city that sank into the ocean?"

"Sure, but…"

"Do have any other books like that? About 'Atlantis'?"

Mr. Doyle paused, unsure of how to respond. "I don't think I carry the kind of 'books' you're talkin' about," he said grimly.

"Perhaps it isn't written on paper."

* * *

"What do you know about Atlantis?" Sherlock asked John, still in the cab. "The city, I mean. The one that...sank into the ocean, theoretically speaking."

"...Well, I know the legend. Plato wrote about it once, I think. It was an island, and in one day, it just…"

"Disappeared…"

"Er, 'disappeared' wouldn't be my word of choice, but, yeah."

Sherlock was silent for the rest of the way there.

* * *

"I've seen things…" Mr. Doyle whispered, "...around the city. Things that don't make sense."

"Like what?" Mycroft asked with mock curiosity.

"The lions, for one thing."

"What lions?"

Before Mr. Doyle could answer, the bell at the front entrance chimed, loud enough to echo through the store.

* * *

The cab pulled in front of a complex of stores and offices, nothing that ever caught anyone's attention. John noticed that it was fairly close to the crime scene.

"A...bookstore?" John asked Sherlock as they stepped out onto the pavement.

"I used to come here as a child," Sherlock said, "my parents were good friends with the owner."

John was speechless, but allowed Sherlock to lead them through the front door.

"I didn't think you were one for sentiment."

"Mr. Doyle isn't an average bookkeeper," he said as the bells above the door chimed, announcing their arrival.

Sherlock seemed relieved that the store was empty, but soon, a figure emerged from behind a door in the back. "Sherlock?" the man asked, surprised.

"Arthur," Sherlock replied in greeting. "I was just-"

"Uh, Sherlock…" he whispered as he shuffled towards them, "I don't think this is the best time-"

"Sherlock?" another voice came echoing through the aisles of bookshelves. Mycroft appeared behind Mr. Doyle, causing Sherlock to grimace.

"Dammit, Mycroft. Why do you always have to show up?"

"I was discussing something with Mr. Doyle, and I would appreciated if we weren't interrupted."

"Wh-no, I thought you stopped all of that, Arthur," Sherlock said, obviously irritated.

"This sort of thing doesn't really stop," Mr. Doyle said dourly.

John tried to speak up, but was cut off by the continuing dispute.

"What kind of business would you have with Mr. Doyle, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, more calmly.

"Does that really matter?"

"This isn't about Atlantis, is it?"

Sherlock was silent.

"_Sherlock..._"

"Hello, I'm Dr. John Watson," John said as he shook Mr. Doyle's hand. Sherlock and Mycroft were still at it, but it was between the two of them now.

"Nice to meet ya, Doctor Watson," Doyle said. "Arthur Doyle. You a friend of Sherlock's?"

"Uh, yeah. C-Could you explain what's going on?"

"Oh...er…" he stepped away from the Holmes brothers and leaned lowered his voice, "Do you know who I am?"

John shook his head.

"I'm a bookkeeper. An author, too. But, in my younger years, I had a side job, buying and selling information-"

John held up a hand, indicating for him to stop. "You were an_ insider trader_?"

"No...I just, sort of managed some...delicate information. I have a knack for stuff like that. I collected a lot of knowledge over the years."

"And you're okay telling me this?"

"Well, I technically quit a few years ago, but I've still got all if it up here," he tapped his temple with his finger.

"So...do you know anything about Atlantis?"

Doyle didn't answer, but Sherlock and Mycroft stopped quarreling and turned to Doyle.

"Any information you have would be extremely helpful in our investigation, Arthur," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"Investigation?"

"It is critical that you tell us everything that you know about Atlantis," Mycroft said.

Doyle sighed, "Alright, but I don't think you'll believe me…"

* * *

**Iompróir ~ ****_Carrier_**


	7. Luíochán

**Chapter 6**

**Luíochán**

"What would you like us to do, sir?" the man in grey asked.

The man in black did not answer at first. His eyes were fixated on the screens in front of him.

"What do you suggest?" he finally responded.

"Sir?"

A man in white stepped into the room without seeing the man in black sitting in front of the screens. He instinctively stiffened when he saw him, but relaxed when the man in black gave him a warm smile.

"W-Would you like me to take over, sir?"

"No," the man in black turned his head to the screens. "I have something else for you to do."

"...Sir?"

The man in black pointed to one of the static images. "You know of this place?"

"The old bookstore? Yes, sir, I've passed by it."

"I'd like you to pay him a visit."

The man in white glanced at the man in grey, as if asking for his help. He received only an insistent glare.

"But sir...if you don't mind me saying, I don't think he poses much of a threat. He quit that business."

"How can you be so sure?" the man in black turned in his chair to face the man in white. "The last time we said that, it almost cost us everything."

The man in white looked at the screens behind the man in black. They showed a small room, the bookseller seated at his desk, and three other men listening to what he had to say.

* * *

"No one really knows what Atlantis is, see," Doyle began. "No one except those who live there."

"'Live there'?" John asked.

"Sometimes, people go missing...never come back. Rumors start...people think they've gone to Atlantis."

"If you would clarify a bit more, that would be most helpful," Mycroft said irritably.

"Sorry. I talked to lots of people, you know, in the business. Every week, I'd hear someone mention Atlantis, but they wouldn't tell me what it was. Said it was too dangerous, or not my job to know."

"Who were these people exactly?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"You must have some sort of record."

"I burned them."

Sherlock sighed. "Continue."

"Over the years, I gathered bits and pieces of information from these people. I hoped that I could put them all together at get the big picture, but I never could."

"Then, why are we here if you don't have any new information?" Sherlock asked, becoming impatient. John nudged his arm with his elbow aggravatedly.

"Mr. Doyle," John began, "did you hear about the two murders today?"

"N-No...what happened?"

"Two people, brother and sister, were killed today, and both were confirmed to information regarding Atlantis. So did their father."

Doyle was silent for a moment.

"And," Sherlock added, "the first victim made a dying phone call and told the operator that he had, in fact, discovered Atlantis."

Doyle rested his forehead in his hand. "Oh God, no…"

* * *

The man in black stood from his chair. "Why are you so hesitant?"

The man in white began visibly shaking. "I-I…"

_"Speak!"_ the man in black's voice bellowed.

"It's just...I used to...go there, you know, as a kid...sir," he answered meekly.

"You are not a child anymore, Justice," the man in black insisted, bending down to look the man in white in the eyes. "You work for me now."

The man in white swallowed, "Yes, sir. But-"

"Noble," he said without turning his head.

The man in white began to scream, but before he could release it, a gunshot echoed through the room, and the man grey quickly concealed his gun.

"Thank you," the man in black said calmly, stepping away from the pool of blood beginning to form around his feet. "Now find another one."

* * *

"If _you_ know about this, then so do _they_!" Doyle exclaimed. "They know that their entire existence is at stake, and they will do anything to stop that!"

"Wait, wait...slow down," Mycroft said calmly. "By 'they', do you mean Atlantis?"

"They've killed more people than you can count. When someone even comes close to finding them out, they're dead."

The three opposite of Doyle gave each other grim glances.

"Then...where is Atlantis?" Sherlock asked. "London?"

"London is where they live, sure, but they're everywhere. Everywhere I went, their name followed me. I traveled, passing on information, and everyone...everyone knew about Atlantis. North America, South America, Europe...everywhere. The only problem is...no one knows what it is."

They were silent for a moment, but soon, John spoke up, "Is Atlantis...a place?"

Doyle shook his head, "I told you...no one knows except for them."

"The lions, Arthur," Mycroft said, "what were you going to say about the lions?"

Sherlock and John gave them an odd look as Doyle seemed to remember their previous conversation.

"You can't keep a secret without leaving some sort of trace. Atlantis, whatever it is, has left its mark on London. They say that its ancient, maybe dating back to the Roman Empire. You've been to Trafalgar Square, right?"

"Of course," John said, answering for all of them.

"Four lions guard the column...giant statues, north, south, east, and west. Rumor has it that the lion is somehow significant to Atlantis. I looked at those statues, once. Nothing too unusual. But one day, I went there with my niece, and she wanted to climb up on one of them. So I stood next to it, and under the mane, I saw an emblem...a sort of carving. I wouldn't have noticed it unless I close enough."

Doyle pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and drew a design on a blank page. There a large circle containing three smaller ones, and a large 'plus sign' on top of all of them.

"This looks more like a target, Arthur," Mycroft said, disappointed.

"Yeah, but...they way it was drawn-"

"This is more likely a graffito, carved by a bored, irresponsible teenager," Sherlock concluded.

Doyle closed the notebook and threw up his hands, "Fine. You don't have to believe me, but that's what I know."

Before anyone could answer, the bell and the front door chimed.

Everyone was silent as Doyle cautiously stepped out of his office to greet the visitor. He closed the door behind him to his office and looked around the shop for his guest.

He turned a corner around a bookshelf and found a man, clad in white, leafing through a book he had just picked up.

"Can I help you, sir?" Doyle asked.

The man in white nodded.

* * *

**Luíochán ~ ****_Ambush_**


	8. Fealltóir

**Chapter 7**

**Fealltóir**

The man in white placed the book he was holding back on the bookshelf and turned to face Doyle for the first time.

Doyle was slightly taken aback at first, "...Justice?"

"Where is it?" the man in white began scanning the adjacent bookshelves.

"O-Over here," Doyle stuttered and pointed to a particular row of books. "You weren't supposed to come until next week."

"Plans change," the man in white said simply. "Those three in your office...who are they?" He took a handful of books off of the shelf and placed them on a table behind him.

"What, you don't know?" Doyle asked, genuinely surprised.

The man in white didn't answer as he reached his hand into the space where the books had been. He felt around, but failed to find what he was looking for. "It's not here," he said, panic in his voice.

"What?" Doyle stepped over to to shelf and looked himself. "This is where I put it…" he whispered in disbelief.

"Has the Sovereign seen them?"

Doyle didn't answer.

"Has the Sovereign seen them?!" the man in white exclaimed, aggressively pushing Doyle into another bookshelf.

"Yes! Yes, he's seen them," he held up his hands defensively. "I...I must have...uh...misplaced-"

The man in white pushed Doyle to the floor. "This isn't the kind of thing you can lose, Menial! Find it!"

Sherlock, John, and Mycroft waited patiently after Doyle left the office.

"Probably just a...customer," Sherlock said after a bit, a hint of doubt in his voice.

As he finished his sentence, there was a loud thud coming from the front of the store.

"Damn," Mycroft said under his breath.

The man in white had pulled out his gun and aimed at Doyle. "Get up!" he demanded.

Doyle complied, his hands in the air. He meekly turned away and began removing books from bookshelves and checking behind them. The man in white followed him as he moved through the aisle.

"You're too slow, Menial," the man in white said, his face twisting in disgust at the word 'Menial'. "Where is it?!"

"I told you...I don't know!"

The man in white tightened his grip on his gun and clicked the safety off.

"The Sovereign wouldn't allow any of that," Doyle motioned to the gun. "I still got it," he tapped his temple with his forefinger, "up here."

"He couldn't care less if we lost another Menial," he said, a maniacal grin creeping across his face.

The man in white was thrown off balance by someone behind him. A gunshot rang, but he was knocked unconscious by Sherlock, who was standing behind him as he collapsed to the floor. Sherlock dropped the fire extinguisher he had found in the office and called for John.

"That was fast," John said as he walked towards him, but when he saw Doyle laying on the floor, blood pooling around him, John immediately knelt down beside him and began to stop the bleeding.

Sherlock and John sat in the waiting room in the hospital, waiting for news of Doyle's condition. In the brief struggle, he was shot in the shoulder, but lost a significant amount of blood. The man who attacked him was arrested and taken in for interrogation.

They were told that Doyle would survive, but would have to stay in the hospital for a few days. Sherlock was insistent that they see him, and after some argument with the doctor, they were allowed to see him.

The man in black had watched the confrontation on the screens in front of him, his expression unwavering. He had predicted this exact outcome, and was given nothing less than he hoped for. There was only one possibility that he had not considered, one that would change his entire stratagem.

Doyle could still be alive.

**Fealltóir ~ **_**Traitor**_


	9. Bréag

**So sorry about the long hiatus...it's good to get back to writing. As an apology, I give you an extra long chapter :)**

**Chapter 8**

**Bréag **

Doyle was half-asleep when Sherlock and John entered his room, but the sound of the door awakened him. He shifted his head on the pillow to face them, though he didn't say anything.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

Doyle was silent.

"Mr. Doyle?" John asked again. Doyle's gaze was aimed elsewhere.

John saw that Sherlock was scowling at Doyle, his expression unwavering as John nudged him, insisting that he stop.

"You lied to us," Sherlock snapped.

"You think I had a choice?" Doyle spat. "If I hadn't, we wouldn't be here, would we?"

"Who was that man?"

"...No one-"

Sherlock cut him off by leaping forward and grabbing Doyle's shoulders, _"Who was it?!"_

Doyle tried to withdraw from Sherlock's menacing glare, but he was forced to look him in the eyes. "Who do you think?"

John pulled a reluctant Sherlock away from Doyle, but he continued to interrogate him.

"Atlantis?"

"Like I said...they're everywhere."

"And you're one of them?"

"...It's…complicated."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Complicated?"

"I can't tell you, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"Who's the Sovereign?" Sherlock said flatly.

"No one. It's just a name."

"Then what are you? A 'Menial'?"

"I...was. No...Sherlock, I can't tell you anymore."

"Why?"

"You're trying to dig too deep. I don't think you understand the extent of this. Atlantis is better kept at the bottom of the ocean."

John furrowed his brow.

"So, you're saying that I simply can't win," Sherlock said calmly.

"I never said that."

Sherlock and John looked at him, nonplussed.

"If Atlantis sank to the bottom of the ocean, it must have had a weakness."

"Please...don't be so cryptic," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Doyle held up his hands in mock surrender, "I can't tell you anything."

Sherlock turned to leave, but Doyle called John over to him. Sherlock glanced behind him before leaving the two behind.

"You know...I hear the Thames is beautiful at this time of year," Doyle said with a grin. John nodded, confused, and left Doyle alone.

As Doyle lay back down, his complacent smile slowly faded, and he carefully detached the IV needle from his hand.

"Trafalgar Square," Sherlock said when asked where they were going.

"The lion statues?" John presumed.

"Doyle could have been lying, but it wouldn't hurt to have a look."

John remembered their conversation at Doyle's shop. "What happened to Mycroft?"

Sherlock glanced up, as if he had only just remembered that his brother was gone. He shrugged. "My guess would be scouting for a piece of cake in the hospital cafeteria, but I'm too busy to bother with him."

Sherlock hailed a cab and headed to Trafalgar Square.

Mycroft sat at a solitary table in the hospital cafeteria enjoying a small slice of German chocolate cake. He casually checked the doorway every so often, waiting for his visitor. When Doyle entered, wearing clothes provided by Mycroft, he avoided wandering eyes and sat across from Mycroft.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Mycroft," Doyle winced. "My arm still hurts like hell."

"I had to be sure none of the doctors were listening," Mycroft said flatly. "You should be just fine. I pulled a few strings, so they won't be looking for you."

"Why here? It's not exactly private."

Mycroft lowered his voice, "Precisely. Your hospital room is too isolated. They can't get to you here. Hell, they don't even know that you're down here."

"What did you want to ask me?"

"What I've been asking you since the beginning."

"And I'm going to give you the same answer."

"Well, obviously, after today's little scrimmage, you aren't telling us everything."

"There are some secrets that die with us. Some that can never resurface. Why can't you just accept that?"

"This is too important to have to deal with personal grievances."

"What do you expect me to tell you?"

Mycroft was becoming irritated_. "What is Atlantis?"_

Doyle was silent for a moment, but finally answered. "It was a city. And it sank into the ocean."

Mycroft tried to stay quiet, but was finding that difficult. "Don't play games with me, Doyle. The real Atlantis."

"I know. There's the fairy tale, and there's this one. It sank as well, but it came back."

It was nearly dark by the time Sherlock and John arrived at Trafalgar Square. Most of the tourists had dispersed, and the lions guarding the tall column were surrounded by no one.

Sherlock took two of the lions while John took the others. They searched for the symbol Doyle had mentioned earlier, one that resembles a target.

"I don't see anyth-"

"Keep looking," Sherlock insisted. They each examined every inch of the statues, but found nothing.

"Why would he lie?" John asked when they were finished.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Doyle doesn't have a niece," he said to himself.

"Wh-What?"

"He doesn't have any siblings. He doesn't have a niece," Sherlock ran forward to to one of the statues and examined the altar it sat on. "He said that he was with his niece when he found it. She wanted to climb on it."

"...So...That means…"

Sherlock threw John an expectant glance.

"I...I don't know what it means. I was hoping you'd finish the sentence."

"Well, why would Doyle lie about having a niece just to justify his story of _discovering_ the emblem?" Sherlock continued his examination of the other statues.

"He...uh…"

Sherlock sighed. "He didn't find the emblem! He drew it himself!"

"Oh! Right...okay. Great," John paused. "...So?"

"This isn't a sign of Atlantis. Doyle was leading-" he stopped when we found the faintest sign of a target, just as Doyle had drawn, at the bottom of the stone. "Here!" Sherlock yelled.

John ran to Sherlock's location. There was, in fact, a small emblem engraved on the lion's pedestal. "Okay. What do we do?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Not sure."

John waited as Sherlock sat, staring at the target, trying to come up with a solution.

"Wait…" John murmured. He knelt next to the emblem and snapped Sherlock out of his contemplation. "If this symbol," John pointed to it, "has nothing to do with Atlantis, and it's just Doyle's, maybe he meant for it to be an actual target."

Sherlock's face relaxed at this realization and stood. "Excellent, John," he said flatly as he pulled out his phone and dialled a number.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked to the sky. "It's almost dark. We could probably do it now."

"Do what?"

"Like you said, we-Lestrade," Sherlock said into his phone.

"_Sherlock? Wh-"_

"How quickly could you get to Trafalgar Square?"

John looked at him, perplexed by Sherlock's blatant approach.

"_Why? Did something happen?"_

"No, nothing happened. Do you have a silencer I could borrow?"

"_That's a suspicious question."_

"Do you or do you not?"

"_Depends."_

Sherlock sighed. "Nevermind, then," he hung up.

"Do you really want to risk destroying a piece of history by putting a bullet through it?"

"What? No. A bullet could never completely penetrate a block of cement this large. We just need to break away some of it to examine it's immediate contents."

"What could Doyle have put inside here?"

"Doyle didn't put anything inside. He just told us where it was. Now, we just need a silencer. I don't want to draw any attention to ourselves."

"Why do we have to use a gun? Why not a pick or something?"

Sherlock had an expression of mock astonishment, "John, do you really want to risk destroying a piece of history by chipping it away with a pick?"

John rolled his eyes. "What about an airgun? Those are quiet."

"Do you have one?"

"No, but Mycroft does."

"He does?"

"The umbrella."

"Oh, God, no."

"What?"

"I-No, nevermind."

"What?" John chuckled.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sherlock, really. What is it?" John was obviously amused by Sherlock's unfolding confession.

"Nothing. Really...it's nothing," Sherlock was avoiding eye contact.

John only stared at him, waiting for him to say something. Sherlock eventually looked back at John with a dismissive expression.

"I made it," Sherlock murmured quickly.

"What?"

"The gun. I made it."

"Wh-Really?"

Sherlock sighed. "I stole it, and as a joke, I made it look like an umbrella."

John laughed. "What's wrong with that?"

"He...kept it," Sherlock's face twisted in disgust.

"I think that's nice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and called Mycroft.

Mycroft and Doyle were sitting in the cafeteria when his mobile phone rang. It was Sherlock.

"What is it?" he asked irritably.

Doyle watched carefully as Mycroft listened to the caller.

"Why?"

More silence. Mycroft then looked up at Doyle, but turned away and glanced out the window.

"Yes. I...I'm on my way."

"Who was that?" Doyle asked.

"You should head back to your room, Arthur."

"What happened?"

"Nothing of any consequence."

Doyle nodded and slowly rose from his seat. "Alright, then. Tell Sherlock I said 'hello'."

**Bréag **~ _Lie_


End file.
